


angel wing

by rhymeswithpi



Series: limit break [12]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Geese, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Introspection, Pointless, Pre-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 10:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhymeswithpi/pseuds/rhymeswithpi
Summary: He stares at the message for a minute, trying to figure out just what it means. Surely there’s a rational explanation for it; it can’t possibly behaunted. Ghosts aren’treal.





	angel wing

**Author's Note:**

> (no geese were harmed in the writing of this fic)

He honestly can’t remember this recruit’s name, but they’re way too far into this conversation for it to be anything but awkward if he stops to ask. All he’d wanted when he’d stopped in the lounge was a cup of coffee, something to tide him over until the next round of training began. The day before had been endless meetings followed by Noct keeping him up until some ungodly hour of the night, and today wasn’t much better. At least he gets to put some of the younger recruits in their places this time, and there’s _some_ degree of satisfaction in showing them he’s more than just a nerd.

The kid is still yammering on, asking what it was like to train directly under Clarus. Really? Is this what he is to these people? He’s not actually sure he’s said anything the entire time he’s been in here, but that apparently means nothing.

The coffee isn’t really that good. It’s barely warm at this point, but ever since the sign on the microwave got a new sign warning against putting _any_ live animals in it, he’s been hesitant to use it on the best day. Even when they replaced it with a new microwave after someone’s experiment had lit the old one on _fire_ , nearly taking the lounge with it.

He briefly debates making a new pot of coffee. Maybe it’ll taste less like the bottom of a rubbish bin when it’s fresh. Glaring at his current cup certainly isn’t making it any less vile. But making a new pot would mean cleaning the coffee maker _properly_ , which probably hasn’t been done in years, knowing the people around here. They can’t even be trusted to use a microwave, they likely don’t know how to clean the coffee maker. Or that they _should_ clean it.

There’s no point in forcing himself through the rest of the cup. He dumps it out in the sink, runs the water and rinses the dregs down the drain before tossing the cup into the overflowing trash bin. The recruit is _still_ talking, somehow got onto a tangent about what weapon class is the best and damn it all, he wants an _opinion_ now.

His phone rings as the kid is staring expectantly at him, saving him from making up an answer to a question he didn’t really hear. Gladio really does have _excellent_ timing. He excuses himself politely, retreats to the hallway before opening the message.

‘Some kid just told me the armory is haunted.’

He stares at the message for a minute, trying to figure out just what it means. Surely there’s a rational explanation for it; it can’t possibly be _haunted_. Ghosts aren’t _real_. He types out a skeptical response and presses send before making his way down the hall to his next sparring match.

  


He should’ve put his phone on silent. He usually does. It slipped his mind this time, somewhere between the dreadful excuse for coffee and bowing politely to his sparring partner. It keeps chiming from where it sits in the corner of the room, distracting him at all the wrong moments. He’s wound up on his back more times than he cares to admit, far too often for someone with his training background. His head’s just not in it, and it’s not as easy as just focusing on the task at hand.

It doesn’t stop him from trying, though. If he just lets himself fall into the familiarity of the fight, dodge-block-parry-dodge, it’s simple enough to ignore his phone ringing until his opponent _finally_ makes a mistake. He barely manages to throw her, and she takes just long enough to get up again for him to know this fight is over, bows respectfully before fetching his phone from the corner.

‘Iggy, I’m outside the armory. THERE’S SOMETHING IN THERE.’

‘Are you coming?’

‘Shit you’re training today, aren’t you?’

‘WHEN YOU’RE DONE, get your ass down here.’

‘Seriously Iggy how are you not done yet?’

‘You could’ve ended it in four moves, she’s not *that* good.’

‘Get down here. Seriously. There’s something in there.’

He scowls at his phone, sets it to silent before shoving it in his pocket. He has to take his training weapons back to the armory, anyway. Might as well find out what the hell Gladio’s on about this time.

  


Based on the sounds, he’s reasonably certain the armory is _not_ haunted. He is a bit curious how a goose managed to get inside, but it is almost definitely not a ghost. Telling that to the crowd of people who have gathered around the door does nothing to make them _shut up_ , though. The only way to make them stop is clearly to get the goose out himself.

Gladio blocks him when he goes for the door.

“No way. You’re not going in there.”

“Gladio,” he sighs. “It’s just a _goose_. It’s probably just confused. What’s the worst it can do?”

“But what if it’s _not_ just a goose?”

Why is Gladio so worked up over this? He’s never seemed the type to believe in ghosts, but here they are, arguing about what could be making so much noise in the tiny storage room. There’s not enough coffee in the world to make this conversation tolerable, but the sooner he gets the goose _out_ , the sooner he can get home and make a proper cup.

“Then I’ll happily clean the kitchen in the lounge,” he says. “Alone.”

Gladio finally steps away from the door.

“Alright,” Gladio says. “But you’re not going in by yourself.”

“It’s a _goose_. I’ll be _fine_.”

There’s really no point in arguing it further. Gladio’s set on coming with him, and all he wants to do is put his gear away and find some decent coffee. If that means catching a wayward goose, then that’s what he’ll do. He shoves his phone into his bag, drops it by the door. No time like the present.

It’s hissing at him from the far wall, neck low. One of those horrible nasty-tempered white geese that people outside the city keep. How it got into the city is a mystery, but it’s here. The logic is beyond him, and this goose is between him and coffee.

“That’s one pissed off goose,” Gladio says. “Guess you were right.”

“Not helping,” he snaps. “Now help me corner it so we can be _done_ with this.”

The goose seems to be on to their plan, ducking between Gladio’s legs the very moment he’s close enough to try to catch it. It runs to the other side of the room, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose in frustration.

“Motherfucker _bit_ me!”

He levels a glare at Gladio, completely out of patience for this. They’re two people of reasonable intelligence. They can outsmart a damn _goose_. It’s watching them with one eye, shuffling toward the low benches in the center of the room. If they can just trap it _under_ the benches, retrieving it should be fairly simple from there. He starts slowly around the edge of the room, signaling Gladio to do the same. The goose shuffles away from him, hissing, _right_ under the bench. Perfect.

It’s biting his shoe. He resists the urge to just _kick_ it. It’s not the goose’s fault it ended up trapped in here, or that he ended up being the only person willing to _try_ to get it out. The damn thing has a hell of a bite, though, latching onto his shoe just as Gladio dives under the bench to grab it.

He hits the floor before he’s quite figured out what’s happening, and the goose has managed to get loose from Gladio’s hold. It lands heavily on his chest, and for something with hollow bones, it weighs a _lot_ , knocking the wind out of him. A wing smacks him in the face before he can bring his arms up to protect himself, glasses skittering across the floor, and the goose is _running_ now. He touches his nose gingerly, scowling when his fingers come away red with blood. Of course. Of _course_ it had to make him bleed.

He levers himself off the floor, squinting at the white blob. Screw it. This goose is going _down_ , it had to go and make this _personal_. He takes a couple steps before diving to catch it, doing his best to keep its wings away from his face this time, lands just to the side of the damned creature and grabs it before his back hits something solid. Lances clatter to the floor around him as he traps the bird’s wings against his chest, grabbing blindly for its beak. The goose struggles in his grip as he catches his breath.

“Fuck! Iggy, are you ok?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he seethes. “Let’s get this damned thing out of here.”

Sitting up is more difficult than he expected, but not nearly as hard as standing while clutching an angry thirty-pound weight to his chest. His face hurts and he has no idea where his glasses have ended up, but he’s caught the goose. He can go _home_ now.

He’s dimly aware how he must look as he exits into the hallway, blood on his shirt, glasses missing. Holding an angry goose. The crowd parts and he makes his way outside, lets the bird go on one of the training fields. It runs off, honking, and he realises he left his phone and bag inside. Whatever. He’s earned his coffee today, and damnit, he is going to _get_ it.

**Author's Note:**

> (people tell stories about Iggy and the goose for years to come)  
> (it gets grossly exaggerated and no one quite remembers what happened any more)
> 
> I got to work today and had to explain I looked so tired because I'd been up most of the night watching youtube videos of angry geese hissing.  
> If my coworkers didn't think I was a bit off before, they definitely do now.


End file.
